


We've Gotten Strange, We've Gotten Older (It'll Be Alright)

by theswearingkind



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Goat Farm, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are hard times, of course, as they knew there would be.  But there are sweet times, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Gotten Strange, We've Gotten Older (It'll Be Alright)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stageira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stageira/gifts).



> This was written for stageira's request for goatfarm fluff. It's not completely fluffy, I don't think, but hopefully you like it! It was tremendously fun and rewarding to get to write something marginally less angst-filled for these characters and this world.
> 
> Huge thanks to my amazing beta, static_abyss and my very generous translator, steorie, without whom this fic would be nothing :) **ETA:** I edited the German to include in-text translations, which you can see if you hover over the words with your cursor, because it always bothered me to see the written translation in the text.
> 
> I chose not to use archive warnings, but please be aware that this story features mentions of (past, off-screen, canonical) character death.
> 
> Title from Carousel's "Let's Go Home."

There are hard times, of course, as they knew there would be. 

There are days when the black soil turns gray and seems as though it will yield up nothing but stone and bitter root, nights when the wind howls so loudly outside their walls that they give up even the hope of slumber. There are nights when wolves sneak in under cover of darkness and slaughter three new-born kids before either of them can manage to scare the beasts away. There are whole weeks when they cannot stand to lay eyes upon one another—weeks when the only words they speak are full of venom, when they touch no more than is absolutely necessary for the management of house and farm. 

There is a long, awful month of ice, a month when they part willingly and think never again to share embrace. After month’s end there is a lingering swollen silence neither man has courage to break, both of them holding tight to their secrets, their doubts and their fears, even as they hold tighter to each other.

But there are sweet times, too.

_i._

Less than a year has passed since they escaped the gaping maw of Rome. They made their way through the mountains in the company of thousands of former slaves, with Agron standing foremost among them. He was the only general yet living of Spartacus’s most trusted men, and their acknowledged leader, now.

They were days of constant movement, pressing further east as fast as their feet would go. Nasir remembers them only in flashes—the bone-deep weariness each night as he made camp, the lingering ache in his muscles from battles fought and miles covered. He remembers the first sight of land not ruled by the Romans, where the wilderness spread out before him like the promise of a new life. He remembers, too, the ever-present sorrow and joy, mixed together in near-equal measure, that threatened at every moment to conquer his defenses and spill out.

And above all else, the constant, gnawing desire to have Agron next to him, alive and well and as safe as Nasir could keep him. 

That last has not faded, as the others have, but it has taken on new tenor. Nasir has learned how to breathe easy in his new home. They are safe now, beyond the grasp of Rome and her armies. Free of such shadow, Agron has become a new man: easy and trusting, inclined toward playfulness, smile always at the ready—a new man, but still the man who claimed Nasir’s heart.

They work side by side most days, keeping company with few other than themselves. There are other freed slaves settled within half an hour’s walk, and Laeta and some of the other women are close enough that a loud shout would alert them of danger, but when they chose land, Agron asked for privacy, and Nasir agreed. They had never known true solitude before, had never had the chance to spend time together without others pressing in from all directions. They chose their little plot of land for its seclusion, and Nasir has been glad of it many a night. 

And, sometimes, the days. Just yesterday, they—

The thought brings a sudden flush to his cheeks, and Nasir fumbles the blade he has been using to cut skeins of rope to length. Beside him, Agron pauses where he lifts stone to use for the goats’ pen. He holds the weight of the rock suspended on his forearms, hands still stiff and unfeeling all these months later, the inconvenience something they have both learned to live with. “Nasir?” he asks, tone questioning. “Are you well?”

A bit too well, Nasir thinks ruefully. He is too easily distracted by Agron, turned from purpose by his cock as though he were again a boy just discovering how to work the thing between his legs. Yesterday was the same, and tomorrow promises no better. 

“Nasir?” Agron prompts again, his voice tinged with wickedness now, as though he knows just what he does to Nasir and regrets it not in the slightest. The day is mild, but they have been working almost since first light, and exertion shows on Agron. His chest shines with a thin coating of sweat, sunlight tracing the muscles of his chest, and Nasir would almost be embarrassed by the abrupt hunger waking in him, if only Agron did not look so wholly delighted by it. 

Agron takes a fastidiously long time to put stone in place, adjusting it this way and that, and all the while barely managing to suppress his smirk. The muscles of his shoulders flex under his skin, strong and sure, as he positions and re-positions the rock in blatant attempt at baiting Nasir. Nasir used to stand near-motionless for hours awaiting his dominus’ commands, but he finds he lacks tolerance now for even this short, contrived delay, huffing impatiently until Agron breaks, laughing and opening his arms.

The kiss starts lazy, playful, but quickly grows heated. Agron catches Nasir’s sudden intensity with a groan, pulling Nasir close, until they are standing pressed together everywhere, their bare, sweaty skin sliding together. Nasir reaches up, threading his fingers through Agron’s hair, and bites at Agron’s lower lip in a trick he learned from Agron himself. Agron hisses—his pleasure-hiss, not his pain one— and then pulls the wonderful heat of his mouth away from Nasir’s, shifting to nip at Nasir’s jawline and suck an open-mouthed kiss into the column of Nasir’s neck. Nasir hisses himself, then. 

In truth, Agron is too tall and Nasir too short for things too proceed much further while they remain standing, especially now that they have the luxury of a house, and a bed, and leisure to take to it whenever they choose. Nasir tries to tug him toward their home, but despite attempts, Agron seems ill-inclined to move; he holds his ground and forces Nasir to hold his. But Nasir refuses to fuck where they are going to pen their goats—not again, at least—and so he resorts to bolder move, reaching down and cupping a hand around Agron’s cock, already half-hard inside his subligaculum.

Agron still does not consent to move, though Nasir can hear the hitch in his breath. “You fight dirty, little man,” he mumbles into the delicate patch of skin just under Nasir’s ear. “But I will have victory, in the end.”

Nasir narrows his eyes at _little man_ , but otherwise makes no reply to Agron’s words. Instead, he waits a few seconds, long enough for Agron to think he _has_ won, then rubs his thumb in hard, deliberate movement along the cloth-covered head of Agron’s cock.

The effect is flatteringly immediate. Agron groans aloud, knees buckling just a bit, and his large hands clench tight around the muscles of Nasir’s arms—and then he has stopped entirely, jerking back almost out of Nasir’s reach, face a perfect, stunned blank.

For a moment, Nasir cannot understand why Agron should have stopped, what might have caused this sudden reversal in mood, and then he realizes.

Agron’s _hands_.

They stare at one another for what feels like a very long time. Then Agron takes a great, shuddering breath, and reaches for Nasir again. Carefully, so carefully, he rests his hands against Nasir’s skin, and slowly curls his fingers around the slope of Nasir’s shoulders. 

“Agron,” Nasir breathes, disbelieving, and watches as a smile brighter than midday sun breaks across Agron’s face.

There is no question of moving, after that.

_ii._

The tavern is crowded and noisy, full of talk, laughter, and the close press of flesh, with the scent of wine and mead hanging heavy in the air. Nasir weaves his way through the long tables and benches with deliberately careful, drunken steps, trying not to spill the jugs he carries in his hands. 

They are celebrating—something, he knows, but he does not remember exactly what. He hardly knew before his first two flagons of wine, and he certainly cannot remember now. A new babe, perhaps, or a marriage soon to be, or the return of a long-lost friend: all are reckoned suitable opportunities for celebration in their little village. All are celebrated in similar fashion, as well, with quantities of drink that would have put all but the most decadent Romans to shame. His own dominus had no head for wine, but if the stories Agron has sometimes told him about the ludus where he spent his time as gladiator are anything to go by, the one-time House of Batiatus was a veritable bacchanalia.

Distracted by his thoughts, Nasir loses track of Agron in the swirl of bodies inside the tavern. All these German men with their light eyes and thick beards still look alike to him, even after a few years spent living in their company. Agron, mercifully, keeps his own beard close-cropped. He calls it mere preference, but Nasir secretly suspects that Agron knows Nasir favors it short, as close to smooth-shaven as a grown man with little time for grooming can allow. 

He finally spots Agron huddled at a corner table with old Raban and his woman Rosmunda. Nasir would have sworn they were sitting on the other side of the room when he stood to go for more drink. Perhaps he is more in his cups than he thought.

Definitely so, he realizes after placing the new round of drinks on the table, when he drops down to sit next to Agron and his head goes abruptly light, feeling as though it might float off his shoulders and up into the tavern rafters.

Agron does not acknowledge his return in words, but he wraps an arm around Nasir, pulling him in close. Nasir leans his head against Agron’s shoulder, letting his eyes fall shut. A moment’s rest is all he needs, he thinks.

“Your man does not hold his drink so well tonight,” Rosmunda says to Agron, her deep voice etched with amusement. 

“Nor any other night,” Agron returns, the words coming out fond. Nasir feels a slight frown cross his face at that. Perhaps he has not the German head for drink that those around him possess, and it is true that he rarely indulges in more than a cup or two of wine, but he is far from unable to hold his drink. And tonight is special, at any rate; they are celebrating—something—and Nasir intends to say so at once, but his tongue feels so very heavy.

“You should take him home,” Nasir hears Rosmunda say, and yes, home sounds most welcome. Home, with their warm hearth and soft bed, where Agron will bank the fire and then join him under their blankets of wool and fur, wrapping himself around Nasir to ward off the chill. And perhaps he will even spread Nasir out beneath him, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, then oil his cock and—

“Come, you must finish your story, Agron,” Raban says in his eager, scratchy tone. “You and the others had reached the arena through the sewers.”

“Another time, perhaps,” Agron suggests.

“Oh, now, man!” Raban pleads, and Nasir can hear him slide another tankard of ale toward Agron. “You cannot leave in the middle of such a tale. Your man will keep.”

Nasir can feel Agron hesitate, and then he gives in. “Very well,” he hears Agron say, returning to his tale of how Spartacus and his men brought down the arena on the heads of thousands of Roman fucks. It is a tale Nasir knows well. He has heard it more times than he can count, and each time is a little different, depending on who is the teller and who the audience. He lays true faith only in the account he received from Mira’s tongue, years ago, as they worked together to fashion weapons for the new German recruits.

For a while, Nasir merely drifts pleasantly, eyes still shut and all the bar-room’s noise tuned to a wordless rumble of speech and song. When he resurfaces, some minutes later, it is to the sound of Agron’s voice cutting through the din. 

“ – And then Spartacus turned, and with all the assembled Romans looking down upon us, frozen with fear even as the flames rose ever higher, he bellowed out a great battle-cry: ‘I am Spartacus!,’ he roared, claiming the name as he had scarce ever done before. And the Romans’ terror was so great he might have slain them all without effort—”

Nasir cuts him off with a short bark of laughter. “You lie,” he smiles, sleepy and warm against Agron’s side. “That is not how it happened at all, you great fool.”

He opens his eyes to Agron’s sudden silence, squinting against the torch-light to see all three of his companions’ faces looking on him in surprise. “You—you understand what we say?” Agron asks, speaking the words with a strange slowness.

“Of course,” Nasir replies, a touch indignant. “I am not that drunk.”

Agron rolls his eyes. “You are, little man. But that is not what I meant.”

“Do not fucking—” Nasir begins, heated, then breaks off, his wine-slow mind making the connection all at once. They have been speaking German since he returned to the table, and he has followed every word.

“Nasir?” Rosmunda prompts him, ever a quicker study than her husband. _“Hast du unsere Sprache all die Zeit über verstanden?”_

He thinks back over the conversation. _“Ich—ja,”_ he replies, in halting German of his own. _“Ich verstehe.”_

A wide, delighted smile overtakes Agron’s face. They had begun to give up hope that Nasir would ever truly grasp Agron’s mother tongue. 

_“Ja,”_ he repeats, stronger. _“Und du lügst noch immer, Deutscher; das ist nicht wie es geschah, und du weißt es.”_

_“Und wie willst du das wissen?”_ Agron demands, but he is smiling even wider now. _“Ich kann mich nicht entsinnen das du gegenwärtig warst.”_

_“Ich hörte Geschichten darüber aus Mündern weniger überheblich als deinem. Hört gut zu, meine Freunde,”_ he says, turning to Raban and Rosmunda, head suddenly clear and weariness gone from him in a sweeping daze of happiness, _“und ich werde euch erzählen wie es wirklich geschah.”_

_iii._

Sibyl was a lovely girl, but she is a lovelier woman, and Nasir does not think she has ever looked more so than she did on this day. Dressed in a gown of pink and gold, blossoms woven through her dark hair, she took her man’s hand in her own and called him husband with her face shining in the full radiance of love.

She’d had her choice of men in the village almost since they had arrived here, some six years earlier. But her heart took much time to relinquish its hold on Gannicus’ memory—not that Nasir can blame her. He cannot begin to imagine how long it would have taken him to mourn Agron, had the gods not seen fit to return him to Nasir. Does not want to imagine it. 

The gods-blessed man himself sits beside Nasir, large, muscled arm splayed about Nasir’s narrow shoulders. He tightens his grip at the sudden sadness Nasir can feel stealing across his face, jostling Nasir playfully. “What could cause frown to cross face on such a joyous occasion, _liebling_?” he asks, taking another swig from his cup of mead.

Nasir rolls his eyes, frown fading away. “You are drunk, _liebling_ ,” he returns, a touch mockingly. Agron does not usually call him endearments unless drink has begun to go to his head. Not when they are surrounded by others, at least.

Agron laughs but does not deny it. “If not today,” he says, gesturing around at the laughing crowds of men and women celebrating the union of two of their own, “then when?”

He has a point. This last winter was harder than any they have known since escaping Rome, and the oncoming spring feels more than usual a cause for joy. Add to that Sibyl and Fridumar’s wedding, and it is no surprise that the revelry of the assembled company reaches new heights.

“But that does not answer my question,” Agron persists, still smiling gently as he lets his forehead fall to rest again the curve of Nasir’s shoulder. “What caused your frown?”

“It is nothing.”

“I do not believe you,” Agron says, and Nasir can feel his mouth shaping the words, half a breath away from Nasir’s skin. “Tell me.”

Nasir turns his head, burying his nose in Agron’s hair and pressing a kiss just below his hairline. “I think only of those who ought to be present at such happy occasion, and who are not,” he says finally. “Such remembrance might sadden anyone’s thoughts.”

He feels Agron inhale, once, deeply, then release the breath in a long, steady exhale. “Indeed,” he says, and something in his voice reminds Nasir of their final stand against Rome. “I imagine many are taken with such thoughts today.”

Nasir looks again toward Sibyl, glowing in her man’s—her _husband’s_ arms as he stares down at her, his face written over with disbelief at his own good fortune. “Can you imagine Gannicus meeting Fridumar?” Nasir asks in lieu of proper response.

Agron huffs out a laugh. “I can, in truth. Fridumar has always put me in mind of Doctore—though thankfully he avoids the whip.”

Now that Agron makes comparison, Nasir can see it. Fridumar has none of Doctore’s skill in battle, but he has the man’s quiet wisdom, the same gentleness of heart. Nasir never knew the man well, but he remembers clearly Gannicus’ grief over his death. It makes sense, he supposes, that Sibyl would love a man much like one Gannicus himself had loved.

“I do not doubt Sibyl feels some sadness today,” Agron says, then adds, wry, “for all she does not show it.”

Nasir glances down at Agron, surprised. “Do you judge her, that she does not?”

Agron shakes his head, straightening. “You misunderstand me. I mean only—only that there is no way to escape remembrance of past hurt, even if new joys abound.” He pauses for a long moment, staring down at his cup, then looks up, meeting Nasir’s eyes. “Would it not cause similar sadness, if our brothers and sisters were not present at similar celebration of our own?”

“It would,” Nasir begins, a bit surprised at the question, for of course—and then he cuts off abruptly, looking full in Agron’s face. Agron’s expression is searching; there is something tentative about it. “Do you—what do you mean?”

“Would you want this, Nasir?” Agron asks. “With me?”

Nasir barely has to think. “If you wanted this, Agron, I would of course do it.”

Agron’s brow furrows lightly. “But?” he prompts.

Nasir looks out around them, then, watching their friends celebrate. There is Laeta, holding her child in her arms, and Lydon standing close beside her; there Rosmunda, a touch quieter since Raban’s death, but still sharp-witted and kind; and even Belesa and her woman, visiting from their village a few hours’ travel to the south. He cares for them all, but they are none of them the friends of his youth. How could he stand up and plight his troth to Agron without Naevia there to smile at him, as gentle off the battlefield as she was fierce upon it; without Chadara to wink at him, smirking boldly, eyes flashing from beneath her lashes as she flirted with Agron’s countrymen; without Lugo to clap him upon the back and tease him about letting Agron draw first blood? 

The thought is impossible.

“I do not think it necessary,” he says at last. “You have had my heart since I was but a boy, and there are none who do not know it. What use would all this be?”

Nasir is almost hesitant to look back at Agron, half-afraid that he might take it as a rejection, but when he does, he sees that he need not have worried. Agron looks only relieved. 

“Praise the gods,” Agron says. “I think I am well past the age when I might wear flowers in my hair,” and Nasir is surprised into a single loud shout of laughter.

“Why did you ask me then, you mad fool?”

Agron shrugs, smiling, and the way it changes his face is familiar and new all at once. “I know not,” Agron laughs, and oh, Nasir loves him. “It just seemed the thing to do.”

_iv._

In recent years, Nasir has taken over their market duties. Now that their small farm is less small, they cannot afford for both of them to be away from the animals all day, and of the two of them, Nasir has proven himself by far the better haggler. The market folk learned quickly that Agron is easily persuaded to pay more, or be paid less, if a child attends the barter. They ruthlessly exploited his weakness until Nasir at last felt he had no choice but to put a stop to it.

It has been some months since last they attended market together, and they do it this day only because Laeta has sent her oldest boy to watch their flocks. It is unexpected pleasure to have Agron here beside him again, wandering through the assorted stalls and huts, even if Nasir had to make him swear that he will not utter a sound when it comes time to buy.

They buy seed and new cloth, and Nasir manages to drag Agron away from a beaded hair-clasp that Agron holds up to Nasir’s dark hair with a look that makes Nasir feel like a young man again. They have only to stop at the smith’s shop before they make for home; their old mare managed somehow to destroy her bit, and she is still too stubborn to ride without one.

The smith, Otto, greets them both warmly as they come through the door—they have spent much coin here through the years—but he is occupied in dealings with a tall woman with a babe strapped to her back. “Anso!” he calls out instead, and Nasir recognizes the name of his new apprentice, though he has yet to meet the boy. “Come tend my old friends!”

Anso emerges from the back of the smithy in a cloud of steam, and Nasir’s first, somewhat embarrassed thought is that he lives up to his name. Anyone might look at his face and think they laid eyes on a god.

He finds it less embarrassing and more absurdly maddening when the boy—who is no boy, really, but a young man near-grown—spends the entire time they are in the shop making eyes at Agron, practically panting after him like a bitch in heat.

Neither Otto nor his other customer shows any sign of noticing, but Nasir can tell that Agron has. He has noticed, and he is pleased by it, the conceited fuck, though he holds true to his earlier promise and says nothing while they remain in the smith.

“Your companion is very quiet,” Anso says to Nasir as he searches out a bit that will fit old Maina’s mouth comfortably. He is taking rather longer than he might, Nasir notices.

“Indeed,” Nasir returns, short, and does his best to ignore the smug amusement he can feel rolling off of Agron in waves.

“There is wisdom in silence,” Anso replies, smiling, and it is ostensibly meant for Nasir, but every line of his body is directed toward Agron. “A lesson too few men have learned.”

Agron grins at that, wide and satisfied, and Nasir cannot control the scowl he feels overtake his face. “Wisdom?” he scoffs. “It is but sign of advanced years. Age has withered the tongue in this one’s head—as it has withered many things,” he adds, pointedly.

Agron looks less smug, then. 

“I cannot agree with you. He looks to me to be in the very prime of life,” Anso says, his voice all invitation. He finishes off his display by holding out the bit to Agron, as though Nasir does not stand before him, coin in hand, ready to pay. 

It is too much. Nasir reaches out, his reflexes no longer warrior-quick but still sharp, and snatches the bit from Anso’s hand before Agron can make a move. “Gratitude,” he says flatly, dropping a few coins on Anso’s palm, then seizes hold of Agron’s wrist and drags him from the shop without even a word of farewell to Otto. 

Nasir walks ahead of Agron nearly all the way back to their farm, just so he will not have to see the enjoyment spread across the man’s face. Time has somewhat mellowed Agron’s tendency toward jealousy, but it has done the opposite to Nasir, and Agron finds the change endlessly amusing. They are within a few minutes’ journey of home before Nasir lowers hackle enough to slow his pace and allow Agron to fall back into step beside him.

“I see now why you hoard the trips to market for yourself,” Agron says at last. He does not even make attempt to hide the smile in his voice, and Nasir scowls again. “But perhaps we would receive better service if I handled future business—I jest, I jest!” he breaks off, laughing, as Nasir begins to rain blows on his chest and arms, everywhere he can reach. 

“You worthless shit,” Nasir curses Agron, half-laughing himself as he does so. “If he had made similar display toward me, you would have torn his cock from his body.”

Agron grins but does not deny it, instead reaching out to catch Nasir’s wrists in his large hands and use them to pull Nasir toward him before releasing them. “You cannot think that I would—”

“I know you would not,” Nasir scoffs, certain of that, at least, “but he would not have minded if you did.”

Agron’s grin shifts then, becomes something softer, more playful. “And what if he did?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Nasir’s back. “Would you tear off his cock?”

“Yes,” Nasir declares, before adding, consideringly, “But only after I tore off yours, old man.”

The words startle another laugh out of Agron. “I am reliably informed I am yet in prime of life,” he says, sly, and he has only just gotten the words out before he doubles over, wheezing, from where Nasir has jammed an elbow into his stomach.

They have not really sparred in years, all their exertions spent in farming and fucking, but they fall to it now with purpose. Nasir takes advantage of Agron’s lack of breath to tackle him to the ground. He manages to pin Agron for a few moments, then Agron gives a heave and tosses Nasir aside. He lands and rolls to his feet in time to see Agron stand as well, and it seems that both of their bodies remember well how to do this, already tensed and primed for combat.

“Perhaps you will not lower guard before you attack this time,” Agron grins, and Nasir returns it.

“Perhaps _you_ will not again be defeated by a man half your size,” he replies wickedly, and delights in the hilariously offended look that takes over Agron’s face. 

“Gannicus was not half my size!” he protests. 

“But you do not deny he bested you.”

“I—” Agron begins, but Nasir cuts him off.

“Prepare yourself again for battle, gladiator,” he says, baring his teeth, and launches his attack. 

_v._

Nasir is no longer the young beauty he once was, the long years settling on him as readily as they have settled on everyone with whom he once fled Rome, but he supposes he still looks well enough. By some gift of the gods his hair yet remains full and black, though he moves with more care than he once had to, and the skin around his eyes is etched with lines. Agron says he likes them—they are a sign of joy, he claims, and they neither of them will be stingy with that. 

Agron, too, shows marks of age. His hair and beard are beginning to show traces of gray that Nasir delights in teasing him about, and he carries a slight softness in his stomach that long days of training once held at bay. Agron does not really mind the hair, Nasir thinks, but the small bit of extra weight annoys him to no end, although he remains nearly as strong as ever. 

Nasir likes the softness, though—he finds it oddly arousing, although he has kept that particular piece of information to himself, lest Agron attempt to exploit it at every turn—so he supposes Agron may speak true about liking his laugh-lines, as well, though he doubts Agron likes them for precisely the same reason.

Age has slowed their passion somewhat, which is perhaps just as well. There was a period of a few years when he felt as though he walked about with permanent limp—and Laeta’s husband _still_ loves to tell of the time, nearly fifteen years gone, that he came to help them with a foaling and had to wait with the goats, hands clapped over his ears, while they finished. Sometimes, though, he still catches Agron watching him with an expression that makes him feel like a boy again, newly freed and trying not to blush at Chadara’s teasing about the broad-shouldered gladiator who trailed him around the villa.

Tonight, Nasir has only just stepped in from penning the goats in their winter shelter, shaking the fast-melting snow from his cloak and moving to huddle by their hearth, when he chances to catch Agron’s eye roving over him, warm and appreciative and so very like that wild German brute of decades past that Nasir cannot help but roll his eyes.

“Is it the frigid air or the stench of goat shit that rouses your cock tonight, Agron?” he asks, smiling so that he takes the sting out of the words. “I think it must be one or the other, for I can see no other cause.”

Agron grins back at him and moves closer, the heat from his body doing nearly as much to thaw Nasir’s skin as the roaring fire at his back. “Both, little man,” he answers, running a thumb along Nasir’s jaw, before adding, only half-casual, “And your beauty, of course.”

Nasir wants to laugh at Agron’s words—truly, he does, and many a night he would do so—but tonight Agron’s voice feels weighted with a kind of sweetness that the man still scarcely knows how to express, even after all these years together. Nasir does not want to risk losing it. They quarreled three days past—nothing serious, really, but enough to put them on their guard around one another. Only today has Nasir felt them to be their usual selves again, and it may be that one false word could ruin the efforts of the past several hours. In place of gentle mockery, then, he allows himself to show his pleasure at the compliment, smiling wide and open in just the way he knows Agron has always liked best. 

And oh, _they_ may be getting old, but the press of Agron’s lips against his, the strength of Agron’s arms holding him close, the feel of Agron’s fingers carding through his hair—there is nothing old about this. Outside their door, the snow continues to pile up in drifts nearly as tall as Agron himself, but inside Nasir feels warm all over, body stretched across their bed as Agron moves over him, slow and unhurried, pressing kisses to every inch of flesh he can reach.

Nasir can hardly remember a time before he had this. 

Later, when Nasir is too spent even to consider moving, Agron reaches down and pulls the blankets up from where they had kicked them away, covering them both before the sweat on their skin can begin to cause chill. He settles his body in a long curve around Nasir’s, nuzzling into the patch of skin behind Nasir’s earlobe, and mumbles something, a long string of words Nasir cannot quite make out, before his breathing begins to grow deeper, then even out.

“Agron?” Nasir whispers, but it is no use: the man is already fast asleep. 

Nasir sighs, then, amusement and resignation welling up behind it. Agron used to want long conversation after their fucking. Now Nasir is lucky to get a few sentences out of him before he falls asleep. It is not one of Nasir’s favorite developments of recent years, but he knows it is a quirk of age, and familiarity, and a long life together. And there is, after all, always tomorrow—tomorrow, when he will wake to the scent of Agron cooking their morning meal, and they will go together to care for the stock, and spend all day in one another’s company before retiring again to this very bed, the same one they have slept in for the past ten years, at least—

So Nasir finds, on balance, that he does not mind very much.


End file.
